by Bella King
Chapter 22
Shaye
I know that car. It’s Pierre’s. I saw him there before I left work yesterday.
Maybe I should say hi to him before I start work. He’s parked right outside the building, and it won’t take me more than a moment. He should know he’s not slick hiding out in plain view.
This morning is much warmer than yesterday was, but according to the weather report, it’s going to get very cold in the next couple of days. I find myself wondering if Pierre has anywhere warm to sleep. I wouldn’t feel bad if he froze to death. I’m just curious.
That’s all.
I walk up to his car, putting on a smile so as not to seem awkward about the feelings I had last night. It’s not like he knows about them, but I don’t want him reading the guilt in my expression. All I have to do is sell this painting to some unsuspecting bloke, and I’m through with Pierre and his oddly charming commands.
At first, I think the car is empty, but that’s before I see the bulge of a large figure underneath a small wool blanket.
My heart skips a beat, and my stomach sinks when I realize he might be dead in there. It’s too late in the morning for him to be asleep, and he wouldn’t just lay there like that with the sun shining into his window. I shouldn’t be worried about him, but I am.
I tap on the window, panic rising in my body as he fails to move.
Finally, after tapping hard enough to risk breaking the window, the figure moves beneath the blanket, and Pierre lifts his head, his curly brown hair in a haphazard mess on the top of his head.
I place my hand over my heart, breathing a sigh of relief at his confused expression.
The asshole is alive. I’d have a lot of explaining to do to the cops if he wasn’t.
Pierre leans over, opening the door and blinking as the morning sunlight washes over his tired face.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask, studying his weary expression.
“Long night,” he grumbles, stumbling out of the car.
I step back as he stretches, throwing his arms out and displaying the full width of his chest. I knew it before, but I know it even more now. Pierre is a big fucking man.
I spot crimson crust on the knuckles of one of his hands. “Is that blood?” I ask in surprise.
He lifts his hand to his eyes and lets out a laugh through his nose. “Yeah, some dickhead at the bar thought it was wise to piss me off.”
“You were fighting?” I ask, like a wife scolding her husband.
“It wasn’t much of a fight,” he says, rubbing his eyes with his blood-crusted fist.
“Stop that!” I yank his hand down from his eye. “You want to get blood all in your eyes?”
He shrugs. “You got any water?”
I shake my head at him, placing my hands on my hips. “Pierre, you’re so immature.”
“I’m not,” he says, his voice growing deeper as I scold him.
“You really are,” I say, digging in. “You were out drinking and fighting, and now I find you sleeping in your car outside of my workplace. Really, it’s quite immature.”
“So what?” he asks, moving on to a new line of defense.
“So, I don’t want you acting like a clown and getting me in trouble.”
He laughs. “Come on, I’m not going to get you into trouble.”
“You will if you start attracting the police. They can look me up, and then I’m done for.”
“You haven’t broken any laws,” he says, leaning against his car.
“I’m out here with you, and I’m pretty damn sure you’ve already committed a few felonies. I’d be screwed just by being associated with you. I’d lose my job, and you’d never get your precious painting,” I say, throwing my hands up in desperation.
A smile forms on his lips, despite his obvious hangover. “You’re worried about me, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say softly, frowning, and retracting my stance. “I-I was just trying to make sure you didn’t get us both in trouble.”
He chuckles. “You can run, Shaye, but you can’t hide from the mafia. It’s inside of you.”
“It’s not,” I say defensively, taking a step back.
“It is, or it will be,” he says, his eyes lighting up as they travel between my legs.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I say, heat rising to my face. “I need to get to work.”
“Have fun,” he says, his words laced with amusement as I turn around.
I barge back across the street to the gallery, furious that it’s so easy for him to know things about me that he shouldn’t be able to know. I’m not into him, I don’t want to look after him, and I certainly have no interest in having the mafia inside of me.
I don’t even look back to see if Pierre is still looking at me with that cocky grin of his. I’m not interested in him. I’m going to sell this painting and move on with my life. He can continue with his mafia nonsense if he wants to. That’s up to him.
“Miss Dawn,” Charles’ voice announces from beside me the second I step into the gallery.
I freeze, turning my head slowly to look at Charles.
“Sorry to frighten you,” he says, stepping toward me and cupping his hands together in front of him like he always does. “But I have a couple who are coming to do some shopping today. Would you mind showing them around? Sales get bonuses,” he says with a smile.
“Oh,” I say, straightening up. “Of course.”
“Very good,” he says. “Is that your friend out there?” he asks, looking out of the window.
I turn around to see none other than Pierre vomiting on the road outside of the gallery. I’ve never wanted to kill a man so badly.
I look back toward Charles, mustering up a smile. “I have no clue who that guy is.”
“You were speaking with him before you came in,” Charles says.
“Oh, well, he was, uh, well,” I say, trying to think of a cover story.
Charles raises an eyebrow. “Go easy on the clubbing, Shaye. I want you in tip-top shape when you come in.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I don’t really know him.”
Charles gives me a knowing look, then turns away to leave.
Ugh! Pierre is going to be in for a world of hurt after work. If he shows up at my flat tonight, demanding that I better already have sold that painting of his, then I’m really going to give him a piece of my mind.
I calm down when I remember what Charles just told me. A couple is going to come in, and they’re looking to do some shopping. This could be my perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. All I have to do is direct them to the painting that Pierre wants me to sell, the Red Door, and all my problems will go away.
Yes, all I have to do is make a sale on a fucking half-million euro painting. Life has never been quite so simple.
I shake my head, walking away from the door to the backroom. I have no clue when the couple Charles was talking about is going to arrive, but I had better put away my coat and get myself straightened up before they get here.
But as I’m dashing toward the back of the gallery, I hear the sound of the large wooden front doors creaking open. I freeze, then spin around to see a young couple stepping inside. I’m inclined to assume they’re my clients, based on the woman’s fur coat and diamonds dancing on her neck and the man’s tailored navy suit. They have money, and that means this painting might not be that hard to sell after all.
I walk toward them, meeting eyes with the woman and then the man as I remind myself to smile. “Hello, may I help you with anything?” I ask.
“Yes,” the man says. “My fiancée and I are looking for some art to put in the house we’re purchasing.”
I hold up a finger. “Say no more. I have just the thing.”
The woman leans forward. “We want something sexy for the master bedroom.”
“Oh,” I say, pressing my lips together. “I can help you with that as well.”
Inside, I’m screaming. Why the hell
would they pay for an expensive painting if all they wanted to do was hang it up in their bedroom and fuck under it? How on earth can I cast a red door in a sexual light. It’s impossible. Nobody is turned on by doors.
“Maybe some angels,” the woman says, her eyes sparkling with her future intentions. “Naked ones.”
“Naked angels,” I repeat.
Blasphemous, sure, but I’m not one to judge a person by their kinks.
The man smiles at me apologetically, but I’m sure he doesn’t have an issue with his fiancée’s bedroom habits. He’s getting married to her, after all.
“Red is pretty sexy,” I say, blinking my eyes rapidly at how stupid I already sound. I’m not going to sell this door painting to them unless they’re looking for other paintings along with the one that they’re putting in the bedroom.
The woman frowns. “Not a big fan of red. I like green, though.”
Green. Alright, well, the door is in a meadow, which is green. I can swing this.
I clear my throat. “Right this way, please. There are a few angels in the back, and then after that, perhaps you’d like to look at some paintings for the dining room, or hey, even the entrance.”
“Something for the bathroom, over the bathtub,” the woman says.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at her. If they wanted porn, they should’ve gone somewhere else. But a job is a job, and I’m going to do it right, even if Pierre’s not happy with the results. I’m sure I’ll get other chances at this.
Chapter 23
Pierre
I’m quickly running out of options, and Shaye is running out of chances. If she had sold that painting by now, she would’ve sought me out to tell me. Instead, she’s been leaving the gallery every night with her face hiding behind her collar, as though she’s ashamed to be seen.
Three days, and I’m not a single step closer to my goals. That painting is worth far more than Shaye realizes, and if she doesn’t get it sold, I’ll have to make her be the one to steal it. After that, it’ll be lights out.
That’s the final version of my plan, the last resort, but I don’t like it at all. Shaye has grown on me, and I don’t have any desire to throw her under the bus like that. The problem is, I’m not sure that I have a choice anymore. I’m visiting her tonight.
My leather gloves creak against the steering wheel as I watch Shaye leave the King-Smith Gallery for the fourth night in a row. She does the same routine, pulling her collar up to hide her face, then hurrying away from the building like she’s afraid that I’m going to spring out of the bushes and stop her.
I’m not going to stop her. I’m going to wait for her to go home, and then I’m going to confront her and lay out our options. Unfortunately for her, it’s not going to be pretty. I was nice, but the time for that has passed.
Sometimes, if you want to get something done, you have to stop being nice and start giving orders like a true leader. Shaye is my puppet, and it’s about time I start pulling on those strings a little harder.
I turn a vent in the car to my face, letting the hot air wash over my stubbled skin as I watch Shaye disappear down the street on her way home. It’s cold as hell outside, and that could explain her behavior, but I doubt it. Even when it was warmer yesterday, she was acting like this. She’s guilty, and it shows on her face like a splatter of ink across a white canvas.
I turn the radio on, searching for something to calm my thoughts before going to confront Shaye. Crimson and Clover breezes by, followed by some French tunes that I’ve heard one too many times. Finally, I settle on some jazz. It’s the only thing my brain can wrap itself around with all that’s happened.
I wait in the car, listening to music and trying to stay warm until it’s time to leave for Shaye’s apartment. Part of me wants to give her one more day and the chance to prove to me that she’s capable of doing what I say, but the other part of me, the honest part, knows that no matter how much time I give her, she won’t pull it off.
Unless she has good news for me when I arrive, things are about to get heated.
Speaking of heated, the damn heater in this good-for-nothing car isn’t working very well, and it’s well below freezing outside. I’m not looking forward to trying to stay warm in the back seat while Shaye gets to spend another night in her prissy little apartment suite.
Maybe I should just get a hotel somewhere and suck it up, but that wouldn’t look good if I did have to steal the painting. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m in Paris, let alone have it on official records.
I tap my feet nervously to the frantic jazz beat, following it like a drummer until I can take no more of the wait. Shaye should be back at her apartment building by the time I arrive.
I shift the car out of park, peeling out onto the street with little regard for the trash can in front of me. It’s made of concrete and is molded to the ground as a permanent public fixture, so it nearly takes off my bumper as I scratch past it.
No bother. In less than a week, I’ll have a fortune in my hands, and it will be a hell of a lot more than half a million euros. Nobody knows the value of the Red Door except for me, and that’s why I need it so badly.
I fear that one day, someone will find out, but if ten years wasn’t enough, I don’t know why I’m riddled with so much anxiety over it. I’m just antsy from being out of jail and back on the streets. This is my ticket to a normal life again.
Rather than psychoanalyze myself, I race to Shaye’s apartment, glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure I don’t breeze past any cops while I’m going so far over the speed limit. I suspect they’re too busy in the center, picking up the drunks off the street and stopping people from stabbing each other outside of the clubs.
I’m lucky enough not to have gotten myself wrapped in that a few nights ago. I’ve been more careful to stay out of trouble since then, but it felt good to blow off some steam.
It felt even better to see the genuine concern painted on Shaye’s sweet little face. I’ve never had someone show that kind of concern for me. The last woman I was involved with took as much cash as she could and vanished after I was sent to jail. Shaye isn’t like that.
I tap the steering wheel as I arrive at Shaye’s apartment building. The light is on, and I can just barely see a blurry figure in the window from way down here. She appears to be naked, baring her breasts next to the window as though to tempt me to come up.
Well, one thing is coming up for certain. It’s coming up so hard and so fast that I have to adjust it in my pants because it hurts to be confined to the tightness of a pair of slacks. They aren’t stretchy enough.
To be honest, they could never be stretchy enough to hold the heat I’m packing. The only thing that would soothe my ache is a new tightness – the tightness of Shaye around my cock. Ten years of waiting, and I’d probably bust a load so big inside of her that my soul would leave my body.
I can think of worse ways to die.
I gaze up at the sight of Shaye’s lovely body, longing to touch it, longing to squeeze it, longing to make it mine. Only once she moves away from the window do I throw on the half-assed mailman disguise, kick open my door, and trudge out into the bitter cold to pick the lock to her apartment and confront her.
I hope she’s gotten dressed by the time I get upstairs because I won’t be able to control myself if I see the heaviness of her breasts and the sweetness of her curves in the flesh. I’d lose what little humanity I have left in me and take her right in front of the window for the whole world to see.
Chapter 24
Shaye
Tea splashes out of my cup, scalding my hand as a loud knock breaks me out of my relaxed state. That must be Pierre, and he doesn’t sound very happy. He’s going to be even less happy when I tell him that I haven’t been able to sell his painting to anyone.
“Coming!” I call out, placing my cup on the windowsill and jumping off of my bed.
I need to put some clothes on because the only thi
ng I’m wearing is a pair of pink panties with a little black bow on the front of them. Cute, but totally not appropriate for meeting with a mafia boss who wants to ruin my life.
Pierre lays his fist down on the door again, impatient for my arrival.
I groan. “Wait a fucking second, okay?”
The knocking stops, and I quickly rush to throw anything that I can on. This time, I finally bought a robe. It’s pink silk, and it looks more like lingerie than something one would wear for guests, but I’m not thinking as I snatch it from the foot of my bed and throw it on.
Wrapping the pink belt around my waist in a tight bow, I check my hair in the little mirror beside the door before opening it.
“Finally,” Pierre groans, barging into my flat the second I open the door for him. He tears off the mailman uniform and throws it onto the floor. “We need to talk,” he grumbles.
I close the door. “Would you like some tea, coffee?...”
He turns around, glaring at me. “Did you not hear me? We need to talk.”
“Oh, I heard you,” I say, locking the door. “But I don’t take kindly to your attitude.”
“My attitude is the last thing you need to worry about, darling.”
I glance down at his pants, a thick bulge drawing my eyes. It sticks out like a sore thumb, and Pierre is doing nothing to try to hide it. Did he come because he was horny, or is this still about the painting?
“Um, what’s up with that?” I ask, pointing a finger down at his crotch as the contents of my stomach swirl like glitter in a glass of champagne.”
Without even so much as glancing downward, he replies, “My cock.”
“Yeah,” I say in an airy voice, twirling a strand of hair in my finger and tilting my head to the side. “I figured as much.”
“But that’s not why I’m here,” he says, maintaining his deadly glare.
“It’s not?” I ask, not at all surprised but trying to appear as such.